


Grik Los Lein

by highenchantress



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8573650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highenchantress/pseuds/highenchantress
Summary: Metne, a cynical nord thief, finds herself thrust into a destiny she never wanted - as the story often goes. As war and fire rage around her, what destiny will she forge, and who will stand with her?





	1. Dovahkiin

The road that carved a path through Rorikstead had always given travelers grief in the colder months, if there was much a distinction at all to be made between the passing of days in a land that was, seemingly, perpetually cold. Metne remembered the carriages with their broken wheels being pulled to the side of the inn in the snow, waiting for her father’s deft hands to mend them well enough to travel again. Storms came and went, as did the people; the town was small, and it stayed small, throughout Metne’s earliest years. Upon the second month of missing her moon’s blood, her mother announced an addition to the family, the family packed stiffly and somberly. They relocated to just outside of Whiterun, a larger and somewhat safer place all together. They rented a proper farm from a hateful man and his sullen wife, but Metne’s parents paid no mind to them; all they had worked for was before them. Though this child did not survive the mother’s womb, the family remained happy. Young Metne quickly learned to muck stalls, and to feed the chickens at sunrise, and to milk the cows twice a day. Her father was a proud man, and it showed in his work. The harvests came in well and full, and were stored away or sold for profit. Eventually, as her mother’s stomach rounded and swelled for a third time, the family hired an extra hand to assist them in keeping the place. Metne and her elder sister Ellina ran joyous over their father’s fields under the hand Wilmuth’s careful gaze. All seemed well and good, and the troubles were far and few between, and the blood and water ran thickly through them.

Upon the successful and mostly uneventful birth of Risi and Heidmir’s third and final child, a boy they named Sorarne, the luck and love they had found in abundance seemed to sharply decline in its wealth and occasion. All remained well on the farm front – crops grew well and in surplus, the animals kept through winter, and business sustained itself as it always had. The first scar that would mar their family came when Metne herself was still a girl. Her father had sustained a serious wound in his younger years, fighting in the Great War. A warhammer had thundered down upon the man’s back, leaving injuries hidden under bruised and bloodied skin. The only reason that he had not died that day was his own quick thinking; he had impaled the man with his sword as he hoisted his hammer above his head to deliver the killing blow. He had dragged himself to the medic’s tent and they had attended to his wounds as best they could, but he had been limited in movement and range of motion since, especially as he aged. This worsened in winter, and the cold air sunk into his bones, leaving the man aching and unable to move during the winter of 4E 177. This put a strain on the family, but particularly Metne’s ten-year-old sister Ellina. She and Wilmuth, the farm hand, worked dawn until dusk to finish the work Heidmir had done on his own. Four-year-old Metne did as much as she could, and so did their mother Risi, but it all proved to be for naught; the man would not survive the winter to see his farm so well kept, and he passed quietly and unexpectedly in his slumber, next to his wife of some thirty-odd years. He was interred in the crypts with full soldier’s rites, and life dragged on.

Risi grew anxious and despondent after the loss of her husband. The farm needed all available hands after Heidmir’s passing, and though she had done so with both Ellina and Metne, Risi claimed that her place was not to work with a baby so small as Sorarne was slung across her back. Even the infantile boy seemed to protest this shunning of work; he was a haughty child, and seemed only to calm under the care of one of his sisters. This proved to be another blow to Risi, who took it as a slight to her mothering, and thus became more ill-tempered than before. Before the year was out, the woman had fallen so far into the bottle that little could be done to drag her back out. She would go on to die in the same bed her husband had, on the same side, clutching his helm. It was Metne who would discover her, discreetly tell Wilmuth, and arrange the burial before Ellina even arose for her morning duties. Wilmuth found himself looking after these children who could not pay or provide for him, and he found himself uncaring – he did as best he could, for as long as he could.

They were found out when pay came up short one month a few years later, and Nazeem came to inspect the dwellings. Realizing the absence of his tenants and the perceived impropriety of the situation at hand, the guards were alerted. Now eight years of age, with her sister fourteen and her brother having just turned five, Metne and her siblings were carted off to Honorhall. The year was 181, and Riften became their home. The things Metne and her siblings had come to care for were stripped from them slowly. First, they lost their belongings. The clothes and small trinkets their mother and father had artfully crafted for them were collected and held by Grelod the Kind, a miserable woman who – for some godforsaken reason – had made it her personal mission to terrorize young orphans under the guise of a saint. Next, people attempted to separate them. Sorarne, still young and desirable so far as the potentially adoptable go, had many offers to speak of. Ellina and Metne, older and bitterer in their ways, buffeted these approaches for years. Upon Ellina’s eighteenth summer, she was ejected from the orphanage, and swiftly adopted her siblings after many petitions to the jarl. Finally, Grelod relented under pressure, and Metne and Sorarne were released to their sister.

With nowhere to live and no possessions to speak of, now-fourteen year old Metne did the only thing she could think of; joined the Thieves Guild. The job was feast or famine, with little in between, but they saved enough to buy the only available home in town. Honeyside was quickly filled with secondhand furniture and the smiles of siblings given refuge from years of storms. Ellina worked in the jarl’s palace as a chamber maid. Sorarne went on to excel in archery, becoming a hunter, sometimes taking on bounties for the city – always with the assistance of Metne, when she could spare the time. As for Metne herself, she rose in the ranks of the Thieves Guild easily enough. She was steadfast and always on hand, sly and as persistent as the shadows themselves. Though Mercer Frey would never admit it, he was surprised with this girl, with her nimble fingers and silent steps. Brynjolf had even asked for her hand in marriage once, on her nineteenth birthday, after too many pints. Sapphire and Vex had laughed before she had to turn him down, and Brynjolf had rescinded just as quickly as he had offered. Ellina eventually wed Thrynn, a fellow member of the Thieves Guild who had courted her since Metne’s joining at age fourteen. They took the title of Thrice-Tried, as Thrynn had asked her three times to wed him before she eventually agreed. Sorarne had kept the family name, thus making him Sorarne Battle-Bound, and Metne had chosen to keep her title short.

Thus, she was _just_ Metne, and that had always been enough for her.

The years came and went. Ellina and Thrynn had sons of their own. Sorarne left the cottage to hunt full-time, living in the open wilderness practically year-round, much to his sisters’ combined chagrin. Metne had since begun calling the Ragged Flagon and the adjoining Cistern home, to no one’s real surprise. She trained and plundered and pilfered with all the best, earning the name Shadow-Hand – a name she used only in joking. Now nearing her twenty-eighth year, Metne was a staple to the guild, and trusted with missions reserved for those who had served for ten years or more – the tide-turning ones, the dangerous ones.

The year had turned 201 in an angry flurry of swords and shields. She had crossed into Cyrodiil to reach out to another branch of the Thieves Guild in Bruma, in an attempt to coordinate a heist on a particularly large Nordic barrow said to hold the crown of some long-dead noble. She had come from Riften to Falkreath, crossing the border into Bruma hidden in the false bottom of a carriage she had specially constructed herself. It had been an absolute pain to switch out the carts, but it had proved to be worth it; the ride was not particularly long or uncomfortable in the compartment lined with furs – lined, of course, save for a small space to let in air. She read or looked over her plans by daylight, and rested lightly by night, until the arrival at the inn. She stole quietly out of the cart bottom as she heard the driver enter Olav’s Tap and Tack. She knew Ongar would likely be here, along with the rest of the town. She pulled a hooded cloak from her pack, adjusting it over her hair, and set off to find the fence.

Korvanjund – the barrow in which they intended to breach – was a bit far for the Cyrodiil branch, but promised a legendary payout. It was for this reason that the other branch had been contacted; usually, jobs with a payout so good as this were some of the more difficult ones to complete without being noticed by the hold guards. Nordic barrows were usually tricky to case; guards were afraid of them by nature, but should a commotion be heard or even so much as remotely detected, they would swarm and be difficult to escape without casualties on both sides. As this was not the style of the Thieves Guild, reinforcements were to be brought in. The dealings were not difficult to arrange. Ongar was, as usual, easy to get along with. Cheerful and informative, plans were cemented quickly, and Metne predicted that she would be home by noontime tomorrow. All that was left was to cross the border once again; something she had done more times than she could count.

* * *

 

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Her contact was nowhere to be found when she arrived. Figuring herself too early, Metne had seated herself at the back of the cave discreetly, shadows as companions and cover alike. She should have known when, after three hour's time, she was still alone. The cold had begun to drift and settle in with the sun gone and, deciding she was likely going to spend the night there, Metne began to gather wood for a fire. This proved to be her fatal move. Her movement, from the first step, seemed a terrible and dangerous thing. She felt the heavy weight of pairs of eyes upon her and steeled herself for a fight, but it was not to come to such actions: heavy hands, cold and covered in metal, grabbed at her arms from the mouth of her makeshift dwelling as she surveyed the area. In an instant, she heard the sickening sound of hilt against skull, and found the world around her rapidly growing darker. The last thing she saw was the fastening broach of a heavy winter cloak; a dragon in a diamond. The Empire.

She had awoken in the back of a wagon, hands tied, head aching furiously and eyes unwilling to adjust to the blinding sunlight overhead. Testing the binds on her wrists, she found them competently tied, much to her displeasure. It was then that a voice came to her, clashing strangely with the sweet song of the birds and the turning of cart wheels against the ground.

“Hey, you. You're finally awake.” The man speaking was blonde, with arms the size of her head; definitely a nord. She said nothing. He went on. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us.” She squinted at the news; Imperial ambush? How did she manage that? Her head rang shrilly with the strain of remembrance, and eventually, came up dry. The man was still speaking, Metne realized. “And that thief over there.” She craned her head to look, still unspeaking, and caught sight of the other man.

The sight of him made her head swim, more than it had before. She knew him. Perhaps not anymore, but she had once; Lokir. Rorikstead. He had been sweet on his sister as a young boy, and was heartbroken upon hearing of their intended departure to Whiterun. How strange it was to see him then, panicked and miserable, hands bound just as hers were. He spoke without acknowledging her.

“Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell. You there. You and me – we shouldn’t be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” Lokir’s was all fury, but not the burning kind – it was more pitiful than anything to listen to. Despite his finally addressing her, he did not seem to recognize her as she had recognized him. This did not surprise her. The first man spoke again, scoffing before doing so;

“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.” Metne turned her attention back to the first man, and fixed him with an approving nod. He was, after all, right. At least she would be amongst her kinsmen here, until she was handed off to a jailor for sentencing or cut loose after paying her fine for crossing the border illegally. The man seemed to favor her approval, fixing her with a smile while the imperial driving the cart barked an order to be silent. It went unheeded.

“And what’s wrong with him?” Lokir asked, motioning to the last prisoner in the cart, a man Metne had noticed but paid little mind to. He had said nothing, made no moves. Upon further inspection she found the man’s mouth to be gagged, and wondered much the same as Lokir. The first man, however, returned an answer with some anger.

“Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

Metne’s entire body seemed to revolt against this knowledge. Ulfric Stormcloak? _The_ Ulfric Stormcloak? Lokir seemed to share her panic at the news, all but crying, “Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the _leader_ of the rebellion. But if they captured you... Oh _gods,_ where are they taking us?” Metne’s eyes shifted back and forth between the first and second man, but she was careful not to betray any sense of panic; impassive as ever. She would need her wits about her were she ever to escape this. The first man, ever the optimist it seemed, returned thus:

“I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.”

Lokir then, more and more desperate with each passing moment: “No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.”

Metne rolled her eyes at the man, irritated and not particularly optimistic at the prospect of this going her way any time soon. Furtively, though without much hope for its success, she began grinding the ropes around her wrists against the wood of her bench. She took notice of the fact that they were approaching a city, one that appeared to be Helgen; a place she knew well enough. She catalogued her options as she continued to ignore the conversation in the carriage. She took note of the fact that the Thalmor were present, along with someone the first man named as General Tullius – the military leader of the Imperial forces in Skyrim.

By the time the cart rolled to a stop, Metne had disinterestedly accepted her fate. Almost humorously, she looked back on her life; if she were to die, she considered, she supposed it _would_ be for the Thieves Guild. It seemed to be the nature of things in her line of work – locked away for good or put to death for your crimes. She smiled lazily as she stepped off the cart, more to anger the soldiers swarming her than anything else. A few things were established before the prisoners lined up for the block; one, that Lokir was just as much of a coward as he had seemed, and two, that they were absolutely all going to die. Despite her name not being on the headman’s list, Metne had been sentenced to execution regardless. She had scoffed, and the Imperial Legate overseeing the execution had struck her across the face. It had stung smartly, the feeling of metal gauntlet against her skin. She had smiled and spit blood across the woman’s boots in return, so she had deemed the exchange worth its weight in blunt force. The first man was beheaded, some Stormcloak soldier nameless to her even in death. She nearly regretted this – but she did not have time.

Hell broke loose not long after.

 


	2. A Deal in Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Windhelm on business, Metne is - predictably - taken to the Palace of the Kings for an audience with the jarl himself. A deal is struck, and a relationship of a strange nature begins.

Making her way from Whiterun to Riften was easy. She had made that trip millions of times. What was difficult, however, was avoiding the rumors and gossip. Dragons returning to Skyrim, the arrival of the Dragonborn, the call of the Greybeards resounding off the mountainside. Metne was entirely dedicated to avoiding these things as much as possible. Instead, she let people believe that perhaps it was Ulfric himself who had slain a dragon and taken its soul. She let people create their own legends; a massive Nordic man, braided blonde hair blowing in the wind and arms the size of the head of a war hammer, a voice booming and loud enough to shatter the very earth. These things collected around her and made her laugh; how quickly tales escalated and fell out of proportion with the truth. She was loath to correct her kinsmen, however, and instead made her way silently to the Cistern – working out what to tell them all the while.

They welcomed her home eagerly and with open arms, most just surprised to see her alive. She found time to rest, and see the resident healer about her head, and to visit her sister and the family. Being home meant work, however, and there was plenty to be done. Brynjolf filled her in on the latest developments; with her disappearance, the raid on Korvanjund had been cancelled. Ongar’s contact, the one that was to meet Metne in the cave she had been apprehended in, had caught wind of the ambush and tried to warn her. It had proved too late. She had already departed by the time the news reached the cheerful fence and there was little that could be done to extract her from the situation, and thus she was deemed expendable – a status that, while she was not overjoyed to learn of, she understood well enough. There had also been a few developments that Brynjolf had personally saved for her to deal with. At first, it seemed to be the usual things; rough times had overtaken the guild, and while they were working through them as best they could, some things could not be ignored. Someone had attempted to step between Mercer, Maven Black-Briar, the guild, and their money – never a good idea.

Metne was in the business of shadows and secrecy, and business was good. So it was that the newly-minted Dragonborn melted back into the underworld, unawares of just how badly her homeland needed her. Unaware, or uncaring – either way, the issue went unaddressed.

* * *

 

Ulfric Stormcloak was not a patient man. He never had been. Surviving Helgen, hearing news of a Dragonborn, hearing the Greybeard’s call – none of these had made his restlessness any more bearable. On the contrary, actually: He could often be found pacing in his chambers or staring at the map on his war table, strategizing silently and fuming. Being back in Windhelm had proved beneficial for his fraying nerves, however. His own home, his own bed, his own and most loyal people. Here he was truly in his element, amongst the ever-present snow and true Nord blood.

He had combed over that day at Helgen in his mind every day since his return. The damned Imperials had caught up with him, sure, but at least some god was on his side for the moment. He had thanked Talos even as the massive black beast roared and spat hellfire from above him, thanked him even as he watched people falling to their death in flames around him. Thanked him as he fought his way through the keep, to freedom. He had visited the Shrine first thing upon his return, paying his respects in proper form. He remembered the faces of his men, those that had fallen and those that had survived. He remembered the faces one the other prisoners brought to face the headsmen because of him. He was thankful that it had not come to their execution, though – he thought realistically – they had likely not made it.

Ralof had returned to Windhelm with peculiar news. News of a dragon at Whiterun, of its vanquisher, and of the stripping of its very flesh – down to its bones. The telltale signs of a Dragonborn. Many, Ralof reported, thought this Dragonborn to be a man of massive stature and endless pride in the Nordic ways. Ralof cast a shadow of a doubt on this theory, however: one of the surviving Whiterun guardsmen had told one of the Stormcloak contacts within the city that, while the Dragonborn was undoubtedly a Nord, it was no man. She was a woman, and she felled the dragon with arrows. This woman matched the description of their fellow prisoner quite well, he added. She had survived of course, he reported, and with him nonetheless. This was promising. Ralof had established a bond with the woman, however superficial that might be. They had escaped together. Nothing cements the bonds of brotherhood quite like surviving hell together, Ulfric considered.

“Do we know where she’s gone to?” Ulfric asked the younger man, leaning intently forward in his throne, elbows on the stone arms and fingers on his temples. Ralof shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Last I heard she was headed back towards Helgen. She could have gone anywhere.”

Galmar shifted at his side, and Ulfric could feel his irritation mounting. No solid leads; not a very promising start. Nor did that fact lend itself well to a potential search for the woman. Headed toward Helgen meant slipping away into Imperial territory. It was not as if Ulfric could send men to search for her; he would surely lose them within the span of a day. No, he thought: this Dragonborn would have to come to him. He would simply have to give her reason.

It was finding a reason that was proving troublesome. He took catalogue of what he had gleaned about this woman from their short time together. Haughty – that much was certain. He was surprised at her blasé demeanor as she was taken before the headsman. After all, it was her head that had been on the block when the dragon had come. She had laughed – actually laughed – at the legate that had sealed her fate. She had even seemed competent, he considered; he had taken note of how loose her binds had been as she was lowered to the block. He watched her take stock of what was available to her. He could almost guess her course of action, and he had even gone so far as to prepare himself for it: she was going to kick out at the headsman’s knees so he fell on top of her, slide out of the binds while hiding from the archers under her human shield, use his own axe to kill him, and –

He figured she had only gotten that far. Not a bad start. She was a fighter, obviously. She seemed unwilling to go down without a fight, but with brash enough to mock her captors. Someone like, say, an assassin or a thief. If her name was not on the list, that ruled out assassin. That left one real, fitting option – she was a thief, apprehended crossing the border, at the wrong place at the wrong time. She was suspected of being part of a reconnaissance team belonging to the Stormcloaks, more likely than not. The Empire was truly not taking any chances. Anyone in the vicinity was to be apprehended and executed. Interesting, how that had worked out for them.

Interesting, how this could work out for him.

* * *

 

Little had to be done to guide Metne to Windhelm, as fate would have it: just waiting sufficed well enough for Ulfric. He had, after all, ears everywhere. He knew she would be coming, and soon – and alone. After dealing with the absolute chaos that had fallen over the Thieves Guild in the wake of Mercer’s betrayal, to Metne, things seemed to finally be returning to normal for the first time since Helgen. She had even gotten to _eliminate_ a rival guild – her preferred way. Sneaking was all well and good, effective, et cetera. Sometimes, she thought, people deserved what they had coming to them. The Summerset Shadows certainly had. Vultures, looting the corpse of a murdered girl, stealing from the victim’s already heartbroken father. It was disgusting; it was without honor. Metne had felt nothing but joy as she slit the throats of each and every one, thanking Nocturnal for the gifts she had been blessed with. Metne, however, was seemingly absent from her prince’s favor. She had just made it inside of the Candlehearth when the guards grabbed her, twisting her arms behind her before she had a chance to realize what was going on.

“What is my crime?” she asked, not actively resisting, but holding her place steadily enough.

“Silence, thief. The jarl wishes to speak with you.”

“Thief? I have stolen nothing.” For once this was the truth, she considered.

“Take it up with Jarl Ulfric, then.”

For whatever reason, it had only just occurred to her that _yes, of course_ this was Windhelm, and _yes, of course_ she should have taken more care in concealing her face from the guards. She had guessed that he and his men would eventually put two and two together, and had resolved to take certain precautions to avoid being apprehended. Something lingered within her, however: how did he know her to be in his city in the first place?

“I suppose I shall,” she replied somberly, allowing herself to be guided to the palace.

The Palace of the Kings was just as old and bleak as the rest of the city, she considered, as she was thrown to the floor in front of the jarl’s throne. “Bit rough, no?” she bit caustically, but received no response from either the guards or the jarl himself. She cleared her throat and stood, straightening out her plainclothes tunic as best as she could with her hands behind her back. The jarl stood from his seat, approached the soldiers, and took the keys from them. She could feel him standing behind her, fidgeting with the ring. She considered that she still had never heard the jarl’s voice, and that he had never heard hers, despite the fact that it had been her who had cut him from his binds after she slid out of her own. They had said nothing to each other amidst the chaos that Helgen had become; only exchanged a knowing nod. She felt the cuffs slide off of her wrists, and she heard them clank metallically as they were handed to a guard. The keys jingling as they were given back to their holders came afterwards.

“Leave us,” came next, a voice she could only assume belonged to Ulfric. They did as they were bidden. “Now we are even,” he said dully, beginning a circle around her. His hands were knit behind his back, almost mocking her. She returned his curious gaze with an amused one; he was sizing her up, so to speak. “You know,” resounded that same deep tone, “You are not how I pictured the Dragonborn would look.”

She laughed. “Is it the lack of a beard?” He only half-smiled in return.

“I pictured you… taller, for some reason.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He said nothing, only returned to his chair and continued to look her over. “Do you do this with all the women you invite into your home, or am I just lucky, Jarl Ulfric?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” was his deliberate and measured response. “I have freed you. You are free to go, if you please.”

“Ah, of course. Being thrown to the floor before you after being forcibly escorted here certainly lends itself to an amicable departure,” Metne countered, crossing her arms. “What do you need of me, _my jarl?_ ” Venom seeped into her words; more than she had meant to. That same half-smile reappeared on the man’s face, much to Metne’s immediate irritation.

“So polite,” came another, separate booming voice from somewhere behind her. The jarl actually smiled at whoever entered, Metne noticed. “I can see why you waited all this time to get her here. I’d say she would have been near impossible to drag here alive.”

“Actually,” Ulfric started, “She came quietly.”

“Quietly enough,” she added.

“Indeed.” Ulfric seemed pensive. “Tell me, Dragonborn, do you have a name?”

“I am quite certain you already know it.”

“Indulge me.”

“Metne,” she replied, shifting. Uncomfortable was not the word for how she felt. “Now tell _me_ , then: how did you know I would be in your lovely city?”

“Lovely? You honor me.” He smiled for a moment; all sharp edges and teeth, a warrior’s smile. “You seem to have some underlings in your, shall we say, _group_ – that were more than willing to accept the gold I offered them for information. Perhaps you should pay your people more. Happy people do not sing like little birds.”

“And you would know of _happy people_ , I am sure.”

Galmar visibly bristled and Ulfric’s arms crossed, but his face never changed. “Careful, Dragonborn, you are a guest here. Do not wear out your welcome,” he warned, a finger raised to her in warning. She scoffed, curtseying in mock apology.

“One thousand pardons,” she spat. “Kill me or let me leave. It makes no difference to me.”

Ulfric seemed genuinely surprised by her remark, and stood. He walked towards her without a word, stood before her, his eyes meeting hers. “Why do you always feel the need to be so entirely careless with your life?” he asked. He was not concerned, or angry; simply curious, it seemed. “Do you not mean to fulfill your destiny?”

“My destiny?” she laughed then, a noise that came out bitter and cutting – as she had intended. “I am not careless with my life. That is the doing of others.”

“Explain.”

“I have no intention of dying any time soon, Jarl Ulfric. It seems that other forces, be they man or beast, are the ones intent on changing that.”

“And yet, you are impassive towards these forces. You do not fight them.”

“I do, in my own ways.” Her green eyes glinted in the candlelight, making her seem more the beast she had spoken of than the man. She did not break his gaze. “Answer me this. Do you not intend to trade my freedom here for a spot in your army?”

“I have already told you. You are free to go.” He turned from her then, retaking his place on the throne. Galmar, once again, bristled. He began to speak, but Ulfric raised a hand, silencing him. “I do have a deal for you, though. I do know how much thieves love deals.”

He was not wrong, and so she did not argue. “I am listening.”

“I know of the Thieves Guild’s recent… resurgence. Who does not?”

“What of it?”

“I understand that you will make an attempt to gain a foothold here, in my city.” He did not give Metne time to either confirm or deny this, he simply continued. “I shall – how do I put this? – I will permit _certain activities_ to occur here, in return for a small fee and your assistance with some matters.”

“A small fee? How much do you mean to take?”

“Ten percent.”

“That’s…” she considered her options for a moment, and found them entirely lacking. “That’s actually fairly reasonable.” He nodded curtly, and she went on. “And the assistance you need? Let me guess. You’d like me to join your troops, fighting for a free Skyrim?”

“Hardly,” he spoke with some amusement. “Thieves do not typically make good soldiers. Not enough money in it.”

“Ah, think of the potential glory, though.”

“If you’re offering –”

“I’m not.”

“Very well. Then, as it stands, I have a great deal of bounties that need taking care of. If you can manage these, you and your people are more than welcome here.”

“Consider it done.”

“It has been lovely doing business with you, Dragonborn. However, we do have a war to attend to. I’m sure you understand.”

“Certainly.”

“My steward, Jorleif, will give you your first task. I hope you would not mind showing yourself the way out afterwards.”

“Certainly not.”

“Excellent. Farewell for now, then.”

With that, Jarl Ulfric and Galmar left her standing in the great hall alone, wondering what she had truly just agreed to. On its face, the deal seemed decent enough; safety in Windhelm at the cost of merely 10 percent of the earnings? They had a worse deal with Maven herself. And as far as the bounties went, Metne was not particularly concerned: she had aided her brother enough times to know how these things generally went. Talk to the steward, kill a few people, come back, get her money, and do it all over again until there was nothing left for her. The only thing she had left to do now was to speak to Jorleif, and to figure out who the little rat within her ranks could possibly be. She had an idea, but she would leave it up to Brynjolf and Karliah to find the truth in her absence.

After speaking with the steward and receiving her first directive, she made her way back to Candlehearth. After explaining that her arrest had been a mistake, she retired to her quarters, writing a missive to her fellow Nightingales informing them of the situation – and of her prolonged absence. She fell into slumber easily enough, and slept dreamlessly.

* * *

 

Galmar was entirely displeased with the entire exchange, as Ulfric quickly discovered. The man had little mind for bargaining or negotiating. He was more used to direct action, with calculated strikes and surefire wins or losses. This was none of these things, and thus, he bemoaned Ulfric’s tactics from the moment they entered the war room.

“That _brat?_ The Dragonborn? The Nine preserve us.”

“And preserve us they shall, Galmar.”

“Why did you not ask her to join our cause? You said it yourself; she cut the binds from your hands with full knowledge of who you were. She followed your man out of Helgen. We’ve heard no word of her meeting with the Imperials. It seems to me that she’s _already_ safely on our side.”

“Common thieves do not join wars. She will need convincing.”

“Sending her to do the hold’s dirty work is what you call _convincing?”_

“It will keep her busy. Away from Riften long enough for her to have a chance to see what Skyrim has truly become while she has been hiding away in the sewers.”

“Would that not just send her back to the sewers with her tail between her legs?”

“She may be a thief, Galmar, but she is still a nord. And the Dragonborn, at that. The more she sees of her homeland, the more she sees it suffering under the burden of the Dominion and its puppets, the more sympathetic she will become to our cause.”

“Do you truly think this will work?”

“I do.”

Galmar sighed, rubbing at his temples for a moment before shrugging and turning back to the table before them. He grumbled lowly; “Can we please get back to something that makes sense?” Ulfric laughed quietly, almost to himself, before nodding in the affirmative. He and Galmar took to opposite sides of the table and began their nightly discourse.

* * *

 

The tasks Metne had been sent to complete were brutish and simple in nature, though not without their merits in her mind. It had been as she expected; clear this barrow, dispatch of this bandit and his men, clear this ruin, ensure this village is safe from that creature. After surpassing the initial disdain for such seemingly mindless work, Metne found that she had actually come to enjoy her travels and interactions. The roads were safe, and the people happy; two things she never tired of hearing about during her not infrequent stays at the inn in Windhelm. Less frequent kidnappings as the bandits thinned and eventually dispersed and fewer casualties at the hands of vampires or wild beasts; things she took no small amount of pride in. Ulfric had even begun sending her to other allied holds to assist the jarls there. Most notably was Dawnstar; Jarl Skald the Elder had taken a great liking to the woman after she had, apparently, put a stop to the town’s nightmare problem. He had offered her some property in the hold and, without asking permission, Metne had begun construction almost immediately. Thankfully, as far as Ulfric was concerned, the building was done by hired men and not by the lady herself. He had need of her still; she had not yet come to him on her own, despite the fact that he was running low on tasks to give her. This worried him endlessly – he could hardly afford to lose a single scuffle, let alone an asset such as the Dragonborn herself. He attempted to assure himself that she would come around, that she would return to ask of the tides of war, and he would have her finally in his grasp.

When she did finally return, one bitterly cold day in late Frostfall, she had been noticeably absent from her duties for about a month. He had not been particularly nervous; she had not been seen at any of the known Imperial camps, nor in the capitol. He had, however, been growing impatient – as was his nature. War had sat less on a simmer and more on a boil as of late, and for this, he chafed. He still had no real reason to believe the Dragonborn would stand behind him when the time came. The time for Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun to make a decision regarding the war was drawing ever nearer. He had been contemplating all of these things when he heard the front doors swing open and then shut, followed by a cacophony of noise headed by what sounded like Jorleif. He stepped irritably out of the war room and into the great hall, and there she was; the Dragonborn herself, sporting a few visible scars on her bare arms, and one that travelled the length of her jaw line.

“My jarl,” Jorleif turned to him, “I tried to tell her that she cannot just come and go as she pleases. She ought to send correspondence, announce her arrival, not simply – simply barge in he–”

“There are many things I _ought_ to do, Jorleif,” Metne practically spat, turning to the jarl sharply. “I have something for you. A few things, actually.”

Fixing her with a stern look, Ulfric nodded, stepping aside slightly as she brushed past him. She made her way into the war room as Jorleif whined his irritations to his jarl, and Ulfric did his best to appease the man before shooing him away impatiently and joining her. She was rustling around in her knapsack as he entered, gingerly closing the door behind them before turning to her.

“Metne, you cannot just walk in here whenever it pleases y–”

The book hit the table with a dull _thud_ and she flipped open the cover to the title page, watching as Ulfric’s words died on his lips. In a lilting, overly formal script, the title read: _Thalmor Dossier: Metne Shadow-Hand._ She held it over the table, out to him without speaking, as if the thing itself were forcing her mouth shut. It was strange, he thought, to see her so… silent. He gave her a short, curious look before taking the book and flipping the page; she simply nodded and looked away. He read.

_Thalmor Dossier: Metne Shadow-Hand_

_Status: Active (Capture or Kill), High Priority, Emissary Level Approval_

_Description: Female, Nord, mid twenties_

_Background: Metne is what the nords call the “Dragonborn;” capable of “absorbing” the souls of dragons and using them for her own benefit. How much of this legend is true, we are unsure. However, it is clear that the nords will rally behind her, no matter which side she chooses in the war. Fortune would have it, however, that she seems to be allying herself with the Stormcloaks. She has been reportedly been assisting holds under Stormcloak control – and only Stormcloak control. Assumed to be a well-trained fighter and strong in the ways of the “voice,” Metne is to be approached only with the greatest caution – and deadly force._

_Operational Notes: She has family in Skyrim. Locate them. Use them as leverage. We must not let her end this war – our advantage is in its continuation. Any sightings or word of Metne will be immediately reported to the Third Emissary without delay._

Ulfric closed the book and placed it back down on the table, looking back at his companion. “Have you read this?” he asked, and she simply nodded – hardly looking at him.

“I have something else,” she added, barely a whisper, placing another book down on the table. He took this one as well, flipping again to the title page. This one was written in a familiar type; it was Metne’s own. _Korvanjund,_ it read. He placed it down without reading further.

“How did you know that this was of interest to this army?” he asked, no edge in his voice to speak of. Metne shrugged, a tight smile pulling at the edges of her lips.

“Happy people do not sing like little birds,” came her answer, and Ulfric was torn between uninhibited laughter and uproarious anger. He regained his composure easily enough.

“Why do you give me these things, Metne? What could you possibly gain from this? Protection for your family? I cannot, you are not a soldier of mine. Access to Korvanjund? I cannot do that either, for the same reason. What, then?” The third thing that hit the table, open to its title page, not well within his reach, read as such:

_Thalmor Dossier: Ulfric Stormcloak_

He felt his knees give bit under him, and Metne watched as his knuckles went white from gripping the table’s edge. “I suppose you have read this, as well,” he said, his tone more stolid than even he himself had expected. She nodded her response, not taking her hand from the book. He looked at her, silent, waiting.

“Thieves like deals,” she offered, no hint of a smile, or even the slightest bit of joy, “But I find myself without the stomach to make another with you.”

He was unsure of how to take that. “Was our first not satisfactory to you?” Her smile was coy and coquettish, and he caught the meaning, but said nothing. _Count on her to find the duplicities, even the unintended ones,_ he thought morosely. She answered shortly.

“It was plenty… _satisfactory._ Generous, even.”

“Then what is it?”

A pause, a flicker of doubt and a shadow of something unidentifiable. “I want them dead.” The response was calm and level, but it took the air out of the room. He knew he would have to tread carefully here, lest he risk losing her favor altogether.

“We all want the Thalmor dead, Metne. But that is not the war we are waging right now.”

She held her arms out to him, turning them over, watching him with feigned disinterest as his eyes traced over them in the candlelight. “When I want something,” the moment was palpable, full of intent, “I get it.” His eyes rose back to her face, scanning, willing.

“Elenwen?”

She shook her head. “Escaped.”

“Where were you?”

“Thalmor Embassy. Haafingar.”

“How did you get there?”

She shrugged. “Friends of mine.”

“How many did you kill?”

“Too many to count.”

“Is it empty?”

“Yes.”

Ulfric’s eyes returned to the table, eyeing the various flags, the reds and blues spread across the map. He considered the implications here; Metne had come to him with a dossier on herself, with a dossier on himself, with a book full of information on an ancient Nordic tomb that had the potential to turn the tides of war. She had told him of her comings and goings, of her exploits – and of her intent. When he looked back up to her, he found her eyes already set on him, patiently waiting like a hawk on its prey. She slid his own dossier closer to him; he did not move to take it.

“We want the same thing, in the end,” he finally spoke, and she nodded. He placed his hand on the cover of the book that had his name in it, feeling its weight without lifting it. “Skyrim deserves better than the Empire and their lies.”

She drew a dagger from her hip, black and glittering in the candlelight, unspeaking. Brushing aside the red flag that lay over Solitude with her fingers, she stabbed the wolf insignia between the eyes and pushed with her palm, eventually splitting the face entirely. She looked up at him, and he reached across the table, placing his own palm on the dagger’s hilt. He pushed it further into the table, hearing the wood beneath splinter, his eyes not leaving her own.

“For Skyrim,” she said, raising her chin.

“For Skyrim,” he nodded.

 


	3. Something Ventured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I hope you enjoy! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Korvanjund was a massive, sprawling barrow: Metne knew this from her extensive research on the place for the Thieves Guild. Interior chambers rigged with traps, large and potentially dangerous puzzles, and all sorts of strange and ancient magic made the place all but impenetrable – to those that did not know what they were doing. Lucky for the Stormcloaks, however, Metne knew what she was doing. She hoped that her knowledge would be enough to get them through the ancient place without much in the way of trouble, though she had some sneaking suspicion that this would not be the case.

It had taken Ulfric a day and a half to read through her compiled notes on the place. Upon the completion of his reading, he summoned Galmar and Metne. While the latter was irritated that she had been forced to stay within the confines of the city during Ulfric’s reading – she was, after all, a busy woman – the meeting went well enough. Ulfric and Metne filled Galmar in on the particulars of the tomb and Galmar, in turn, came up with the best course of action for a small, specialized force to move through with as much ease as possible. Ulfric issued the order to depart immediately, and knowing that a nighttime assault was likely best for their intentions, the duo planned to take the fort after a brief respite at the Stormcloak camp in Whiterun Hold. There, they would wait until sunset to approach the barrow and enter under the cover of night to avoid any unnecessary confrontation. Wishing them well, Ulfric departed, leaving Metne and Galmar to eat a light lunch before departing for the camp.

The taking of the Jagged Crown came with its complications, its losses and its gains, but it was declared an overall success. The Imperials had beaten them there, but it had been easy enough to rout them out as they made their way through the barrow. Ambushes and the undead made progress slow, but they found the crown still atop the head of its ruler; a ruler less than willing to give it up without a fight. Metne and Galmar took the brunt of the draugr’s attacks, and in spite of a broken nose and bruised ribs, they brought it down. Returning the crown to Ulfric was what gave Metne the most happiness, however. Delighted was not the correct word for his reaction upon her return to the Palace of the Kings. Despite the newly crooked nose and the labored breath that came with the bruised ribs, Ulfric told her she was a beauty to behold, practically spinning her about in his arms as she placed the crown upon his head. They pulled apart, coloring only slightly at the intimacy that had grown between them as time went on. They spent the night celebrating in the great hall with Galmar, Ulfric’s left and right hands challenging each other to drinking contests and singing loudly into the frigid night air. The night was young and the war was growing older by the day; soon it would be dead and buried, Metne hoped. They departed to continue the efforts the following morning, equally regretful and rejuvenated from their festivities.

The days passed as Stormcloak forces took forts and cities alike, with Galmar and Metne by their sides. After a long while in the field, Ulfric sent a courier with a message asking them to return to the Palace of the Kings to finalize the plans to overtake Solitude. The rode from the Reach back to Windhelm in as little time as possible, and their horses rejoiced as the city stables came into view. It had begun snowing as they entered the hold and had only picked up since, making the already biting cold the stuff legends were written about. Metne and Galmar walked in companionable silence, warming their cupped hands with their breath as they made their way through the opening city gates. The sounds of merriment and boisterous laughter came from within Candlehearth, something she took personal pride in: the Butcher had painted these streets red in blood and fear not but the year prior, but she had assisted the city in stopping him before he struck again. Since that time, she had made it a point to truly listen to the laughter in the streets. It gave her no small amount of comfort to know that she could do that for these people. She found herself considering _these_ people to be _her_ people more often than not, now – something that she was conflicted with, for the time being. Galmar broke her from her reverie, slapping her on the back with his belly-laugh resounding against the cold air. She looked up at him chuckling at her curiously.

“Are you always this quiet when visiting the future high king? Or are you just particularly nervous this time around?” he chortled, peering down at her over his red-tipped nose.

“Nervous? Me?” she answered, fixing him with a crooked look.

“Oh please, Dovahkiin. You two have been making googly-eyes at each other since you met.”

“We absolutely have _not_.”

“Whatever you say. Just know that people are starting to _talk_.”

“Then let them talk,” she responded, and Galmar simply snorted. The walk the rest of the way to the palace fell back into silence, albeit a bit less companionable.

She thanked the Nine for how warm the great hall was upon their entry, something she likely owed to Jorleif. Resolving to thank him upon her next meeting with him, she removed her travel cloak. Galmar did the same, already walking toward the war room with the soaked garment draped over his arm. She heard the two men all but yelling their greetings and rolled her eyes as she herself approached. Ulfric and Galmar were speaking animatedly as she entered. Her broken nose had healed straight enough, but when Ulfric’s eyes fell on her face, she felt the need to cover it. Biting back the urge to do just that, she averted her eyes instead, looking at the map on the table. Many of the flags that had once been red had been swapped out for blue ones, leaving only a few red flags left – red flags, and one knife stuck deep into the wooden table. She ran the palm of her hand over the pommel, gripping as it passed over the rounded base, yanking it out of the map. She tucked the blade into her waistband then, stating, “It’s a perfectly good dagger, I won’t waste it on a table.” Galmar and Ulfric both laughed, and they called for mead, and spent the night discussing the final plans for taking Solitude.

Galmar, as was his habit, drank too much and was escorted to a room by a wary maid. This left a quiet Metne to stare at the table and strategize to herself, and Ulfric, who seemed to have lost his taste for strategizing altogether after doing so for hours. He heaved a sigh, shaking Metne away from her thoughts of battle. She pulled her tired eyes from the table and set them upon him, willing him to speak so she did not have to. He did as he was not bade.

“Walk with me.” It was not a question, but a statement, and so she stood stiffly.

They walked the darkened halls of the Palace of the Kings by candlelight, descending into depths of the place that Metne had not even known existed. She supposed most palaces were like this; vast and practically unending, filled with secret chambers and secrets alike. Perhaps this was due to the stories she had entertained as a child, something she had not grown out of, because it made her remember the softness of a childhood that had once been so easy. She knew she would never feel that softness again, not as it had been; thus, she held on to these small things. Ulfric turned corners and descended stairs ahead of her, the dull orange-red glow of the candle making ghosts in the corners of rooms long past unused. They stopped at the start of a long hallway, lined by portraits, all pristinely clean and aligned. Ulfric lit the first candle to his left, which illuminated a picture of a jovial looking [old man](http://orig02.deviantart.net/e674/f/2013/240/0/8/angol_by_virginiecarquin-d6j2vwr.jpg) with a smoking pipe. Ulfric motioned to the man.

“Ulreld Stormcloak, first of our name. Start of my lineage, so far as we can trace. By all accounts, he was a force to be reckoned with as a young man, and aged into a good-natured – if not a bit senile – old man. Died next to one of his lovers, a twenty-something year old barmaid.” Metne laughed as they continued down the hall, Ulfric lit more of the candles, further lighting their path. He stopped at a picture of a [dark-haired woman](http://orig04.deviantart.net/73d1/f/2013/244/6/e/virg_by_virginiecarquin-d6kkmop.jpg) after skipping quite a few portraits, and Metne stopped next to him. “[Mera Stormcloak](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Thane_Mera_Stormcloak), in her younger years as thane of Windhelm. Either the first or the second female thane of this hold, depending on who you ask. Wuunferth claims that he knew Mera personally, but I take everything the man says with a grain of salt.” Metne laughed once more and Ulfric joined her, this time, the noise echoing down the chamber.

They went on like that, down the entire hall, for a long while. Stopping here and there to go over the history of the Stormcloak family line, finally, they made it to the end of the hallway. There was a sharp right that came next, and Ulfric turned it slowly, lighting the candle next to a picture of a [handsome young man](http://orig13.deviantart.net/9797/f/2012/295/b/6/b676ea542f67a64aef08bbc4eeee88c2-d5ikrhd.jpg) with Ulfric’s nose and crooked smile. He did not have to speak; she did it for him.

“The Bear of Eastmarch. This is your father.”

Ulfric smiled half-heartedly. “Yes, it is. Bjarn Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. How he grew to _despise_ this painting. He used to say that he was too young and too pretty.” He smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. Walking across the hall, he lit another candle. This one illuminated a [beautiful woman](http://orig08.deviantart.net/c074/f/2013/111/f/5/portrait_of_d_v__by_virginiecarquin-d5ih5hn.jpg) with the same strawberry-blonde hair Ulfric had, and many of the same sharp features.

“Your mother.”

“Aye, that it is.”

“She is very beautiful.”

“She was.”

“What was her name?”

“Hellina of the Rift. She was from a well-enough-to-do family that very few people knew of. My father met her and loved her instantly. She died in childbirth.” He turned back to the other side of the hall and lit another candle; this one illuminating a [face](http://orig03.deviantart.net/3751/f/2014/298/0/7/portrait_of_k_o__by_virginiecarquin-d5n19w2.jpg) that was very much his own, steeped in youth and vitality, though still keeping those tired eyes. Metne traced the curve on his jaw with her fingertips against the canvas, lightly, as if Ulfric himself may feel it were she to be too harsh. She felt him turn away from her, to the other side of the hallway. He lit another candle, and she turned, confused.

[A young woman](http://orig07.deviantart.net/d5d2/f/2014/294/a/b/commission___amelie___dragon_age_by_virginiecarquin-d837cxy.jpg), hardly more than a girl, sat smiling in serene grace back at her. Her blonde locks were pulled back into a traditional Nordic bun with braids, and her face held familiar angles within its rosy-cheeked depths. She had the jaw and cheekbones of the portrait Metne had just left.

“My sister,” Ulfric explained quietly, “Morgen.”

“She looks so young,” was Metne’s reply, her eyes on the girl’s own. “Too young. Where is she now, if not here?”

“Just through that door,” he pointed to the end of the hall, “And down another flight of stairs.”

It hit Metne then. “She’s dead.” Ulfric simply nodded. “What happened?”

“My mother had an absolutely miserable pregnancy, carrying Morgen. Constantly ill, always exhausted, miserable. Wuunferth truly did everything he could to help her. My father had people come in from across Tamriel to assist in the birth. I think a part of him knew that it was all for naught. When the gods want something, they take it.”

“And so they took your mother.”

“Yes. My sister survived the birth, however – for a time. She was a sickly girl. Beautiful and full of heart, but sickly nonetheless. She spent sixteen good years on this earth before she fell ill one winter morning. She was gone by the next.”

Not entirely sure of what to say, Metne offered thus; “I’m so sorry, Ulfric.”

“As am I. She was a gift to this world. Her passing was a terrible waste.”

“I can tell how much you loved her.”

“I was still young when she was born. I was two years her senior, but I did as much as I could with her. It used to annoy Galmar when we were boys, but eventually he came to love her as I did. Perhaps more, in a different way. I never asked, but he mourned just as heavily at her passing as I. I left for High Hrothgar shortly after she passed away.”

Metne nodded, still unsure of herself, but wishing to make the attempt to comfort him in some small way. “I lost my parents when I was very young. I know the pain of losing family. I know it is not quite the same to lose a sibling, especially one so young, but –”

“Pain in not a contest. A loved one lost is a loved one lost. This world is certainly not for the faint of heart.”

“You are right.” Ulfric nodded absently, turning to walk back down the length of the hall, back the way they had come. “Should we not put out the candles?” Metne asked, following, not keen on being left in the dark with the shadows of Ulfric’s past. Ulfric simply shrugged.

“It is almost daybreak. Someone will be down within the hour to clean, anyways. May as well give them a tale to tell their friends, candles lit on their own in the dead of night.”

“That is rather devious of you,” Metne quipped, earning an honest smile from him.

“If you thought I had no humor left in me, you were mistaken,” he replied, holding his arm for her to take. She smiled and took it, and they ascended the steps once more. He escorted her to her chambers, and wished her a peaceful slumber. When he next awoke, she was gone once again.

* * *

 War, she decided, was the mistress of fortune; gold flowed through the Thieves Guild like lifeblood, entire cities opened to her people, and the Thieves Guild became more powerful than perhaps it ever had been prior. As more battles were won and Jarls replaced, Metne was given more property and more titles. By the time Ulfric was ready to take Solitude itself, the Thieves Guild had a foothold in nearly every Stormcloak-allied town and city in Skyrim. While none were so easily traversed as Riften would be, with the property Metne had been gifted, she opened safe houses for her operatives at every point she could. Her largest outposts were in Hjaalmarch, Falkreath, and the Pale. The first stead, Winstad Manor, acted as a port to both export and import goods and people alike, as the place was close to a port that took people from Skyrim to Solstheim. The next, Lakeview Manor, was used as a safe house for both people and stolen goods. It was used as such due to its remote and easily defensible location, the bountiful nature of its harvests, and the serene views it offered those residing there. The last base she had constructed was, in fact, the first she had ever had built. It was the property in the Pale, called Heljarchen Hall, and it was used as a bank of sorts for the guild’s more valuable and prized assets. The Eyes of the Falmer were kept here, under the watch of some of the guild’s most loyal and fierce members. It was the only place under the guild’s control where the people had orders to kill; a controversial decision that Metne had made in order to protect the guild’s biggest assets so it would never return to the destitution Mercer Frey had left it in.

War came and went, dragons flew and fell, and Skyrim lulled back into the steady pace of a country rebuilding. The battles blew quickly by after Metne and Galmar had secured the Jagged Crown for Ulfric. First had been the forts, and then Whiterun had been secured, and the rest of Skyrim came swiftly after. The march on Solitude had ripped Metne’s shoulder from its socket and tore an angry gash down the length of her left leg, but she healed fully, and the moot approached. Elisif had sworn fealty to Ulfric, making the moot itself little more than a formality, but it would be done nonetheless. On the day prior to when it was to take place, Metne slew the terrible dragon Alduin in Sovngarde, and returned with a sword made of the bones of one of his brothers. She gifted this sword, deemed Sovngardian, to Ulfric at the moot the following day as a show of good faith and prosperity. With this and the support of faithful jarls, Ulfric was, naturally, elected High King by the moot. Elisif was asked to swear fealty, and she did so somberly. She would remain in Solitude as jarl until such a time came that Ulfric was ready to take over as High King, which would come in but a few short weeks. After that, her fate hung in the balance.

Ulfric's first decrees as High King were all political in nature, as was to be expected. He ordered the previous Jarls, those aligned with the Imperials, put to death for high treason against Skyrim and her people. While certainly a controversial move, it ensured that no one would rise up against the new king in an attempt to dethrone him. The only Jarl that did not face this fate was Elisif, who had the love and support of her people, along with her rights of marriage to the previous king. Her future would be decided upon Ulfric’s return to Solitude though she was, for now, essentially jailed in her palace and kept under strict supervision.

The next decree sent all of the young children of those Jarls to Windhelm. There, they were housed in the refurbished Hjerim Hall, Metne's own home given to her by Ulfric for her service to him throughout the war. As one of the only properties of hers she had not turned into a Thieves Guild safe house, she had called for it to be turned into a boarding school of sorts, complete with an education center and a multitude of sleeping arrangements. The children were taught what Ulfric called "a true Nordic education," in the hopes of fostering a more sympathetic view of the Stormcloak cause in them. The children could also be adopted, given that their education was completed. Metne stationed Niranye, a friend of the Thieves Guild and one of her own personal friends, there to ensure that the children remained well-cared-for, well-educated, and that they stayed with their siblings were they adopted. Having chosen the staff of the place herself, Metne took great pride in the project, and others hailed it as equal parts “revolutionary” and “in poor taste.” Metne, herself, liked to believe the former. Ulfric's final decree showed a sense of practicality, and mercy. The older children of the Empire-loyal Jarls were given a choice; become a housecarl to a new Jarl, learn from them, see their side. It was that, or be sentenced to a menial life of hardship, serving Skyrim as a miner or farmhand under strict watch of the Stormcloak Guard. Most, of course, chose to become housecarls. Those that did not, however, were shipped off to their new lives of toil and hardship.

Ulfric also handed out a few titles on this day. Galmar Stonefist was to become Jarl of Windhelm in his stead. Metne was asked to be a thane in his court, which she happily accepted. He also asked her to cut her ties with the Thieves Guild, which both angered and saddened her, though she did see the necessity for such a request. As Thane to the High King, she knew that if her ties to the Thieves Guild were to come to light, it would reflect poorly upon both she and the High King. After working so hard for so long to ensure that her homeland was under the rule of those with its best interests at heart, she morosely agreed that it was for the best, and visited the Ragged Flagon one final time to name Brynjolf as her choice for Guild Master and to wish the people she had come to consider family great joy and success in their endeavors. She left with a lifetime welcome and the love of a people she had brought up from the dust – and a heart achingly full of regret and understanding for why this had to be done.

The days flew by in a blur. All at once, it seemed, life in Skyrim began anew. Farms that laid in ruin after the war were ordered rebuilt. Families shamed for their ties to the rebellion were given honorary titles, changing the structure of wealth and respect in cities throughout the land. In a show of good faith, Ulfric even pardoned families with ties to the Imperial Army in hopes of lessening growing tension in what were once Imperial holds. He even – after much reasoning from Metne – agreed to renovate Windhelm's "Gray Quarter" to appease the Elven population who grew worried about their fate after the war. It had been in Ulfric's original plan to expel the Elves, but realizing that another war with them was always looming on the horizon, he decided it was in Skyrim's best interests to keep their enemies close, as the saying goes.

So went the first weeks of High King Ulfric Stormcloak's rule. People rejoiced in the streets, prisoners of war returned home for the first time since their capture, and families made amends. While not everyone was happy to see Ulfric on the throne, everyone was happy to see the end of the war. There would be no swords clashing in the night. There would be only music and celebration, and Metne all but wept as she walked the streets of Windhelm upon her return from Riften, people prancing and singing about her. Children ran in the streets, dark elves laughed in the corner club, and ales of all kinds flowed through the halls like blood through her veins. Skyrim was healing, and so was she.

* * *

Peace was a fragile thing, and shortly after those first weeks back in Windhelm, news came by way of a courier to the Palace of the Kings very early one morning. Metne had been awakened by the yelling of the man carrying the message outside the front doors. Guards flocked to the man immediately, near unwilling to hear him out as the dragged him inside. Ulfric, who was a light sleeper by nature, had descended from his quarters to ascertain what was happening in his palace. Ordering the guards to release the man, he began stuttering his message. Metne drew her night cloak over her shoulders and departed her chambers, joining Ulfric in the throne room. He lit a torch impatiently as the man regained his composure before plunking down in his throne, watching unamusedly. Finally came the words that froze even Nordic blood solid in the veins of those present;

“The emperor is dead, Jarl Ulfric.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the art in this chapter was done by the lovely Virginie Carquin (VirginieCarquin on deviantArt). Check out their gorgeous stuff!


	4. Obligations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyrim, despite their cut ties with the Empire, reacts to the assassination of the Emperor with fervor. Metne receives some potentially distressing news.

Ulfric had, on principle, sought out the murderers of the Emperor with his own forces. Though it was an Imperial force that had reached Falkreath first – much to Ulfric’s unending concern – his soldiers had been close behind. They had also been the first (and only) troop that had made it to Dawnstar, following on the heels of what were perhaps the last remaining members of the Dark Brotherhood. Metne had gone to Delvin Mallory preemptively, in an attempt to gather information. The sly man had given her the bare minimum; a man that called himself the Listener had come to him, asked him for assistance in “prettying up” the abandoned Sanctuary in the far north. When she had asked Delvin if he knew the password, he had nodded somberly, and said nothing more. Instead he had sipped at his mead and thought to himself for a good while, and Metne understood this for what it was: a man with a terrible decision to make. Deciding between giving up some of your most long-standing allies and betraying a friend to whom you owe a great debt would never have been an easy choice, even under circumstances that had allowed for more time to make the decision. As they stood, it was bitterly made, and the taste seeped into the conversation easily. At last, Delvin turned to her, his eyes not meeting her own. He hesitated, swallowing hard before he spoke. Metne hated herself for doing this to him, but it was bigger than the both of them – any organization that could kill the Emperor could certainly kill the High King, and could _absolutely_ kill her. They had to be stopped, and for this, she stood resolute – despite the fact that asking this of the Thieves Guild would likely end her relationship with them entirely.

“The password is,” Delvin began, his accent as thick as honey, though nowhere near so sweet, _“Innocence, my Brother.”_ He sighed heavily, picking up his mug, sloshing around its contents. “This makes us even, lass.” Metne nodded her agreement and left without another word, trying not to notice Delvin’s misery as she did. She departed Riften for Dawnstar that very moment, sending a missive to Ulfric explaining the new developments. She hoped he would understand her insistence in resolving the manor as she rode from the gates.

It was a hard run, she found, with a heavy snow setting in almost as soon as she crossed into the True North. She was glad for her time in Windhelm, then, and for her practice of carrying extra furs as she pulled on yet another layer under her heaviest cloak. She did not stop for more than ten minutes her entire journey, leaving her horse in the Jarl’s stable as soon as she reached the town. Skald had tried to stop her, to at least ascertain her course of action, but it was for naught. She trudged silently, coldly, to the entrance of the terrible lair. When the ancient, dark whispers came to her, she hardly let them finish before she spat the response it desired:

_“Innocence, my Brother.”_

As if it knew her intent, the door swung open slowly, heavily. Inside, it was silent. There were no signs of life, no stirrings, and no voices came from within the stony depths. It was a heavy, unrelenting silence. Perhaps it should have deterred her, but it did not; she stepped inside after only a moment’s hesitation, and the door shifted shut behind her of its own accord. She was within the place as simply as it was within her; lasting, haunting, and _wrong_. The place knew her meaning, it had to, of this she was sure – and of this, in some small way, she was proud. There was certainly no turning back now, she considered, drawing her sword. It was named Traitor’s End, and it had been as an extension of her arm since the start of the Civil War. She would use it to end the threat on her life, on Ulfric’s life, and she would do so happily.

The missive had reached Ulfric, she considered, about an hour in to her cleansing of the Sanctuary. She had killed the Redguard first, a large man with a coquettish grin she had immediately know to be Nazir from her limited contact with the Brotherhood during her time as Guildmaster. It had not been an easy battle. He had slashed her arm wide open, leaving her bleeding all over the icy interior of the common hall where she had found him. In the end it was her sword that had carved a fine gash into his throat, leaving him to spray his lifeblood helplessly onto the freezing floor. In his death throes, he had smiled up at her. It would stay with her, she knew, as she continued scouring the place. She had found the Listener next. She knew this to be the case merely by his look. A pale, sullen looking man – perhaps a Nord, perhaps an Imperial, she could not be sure – that seemed more inconvenienced by her presence than anything else. She knew he would be hard to kill, especially alone, and injured. This did not daunt her any more than slaying Alduin had, she considered as their blades connected.

The man was a whirlwind, all spring and dodge. Had she been a younger woman, had she not seen the things she had or killed the creatures she did, he would have bested her easily. As it were, they were well-matched. Her sword parried his daggers, her step left countered his step right. He was unendingly fast, and notoriously cruel in his blows. He struck at her injured arm more times than she could readily defend against, but she could use that. She feinted into one of his blows, biting at the scream that rose in her throat. This threw the man off-guard, and she lunged, connecting with his gut. His armor, though well-made, was better for stealth than it was for fending off blows of such force. He was surprised, she was pleased to see. He dropped his daggers with a loud, metallic _clang._ His hands went to his stomach, covering the wound, blood flowering from between his threaded fingers. His knees hit the ground sharply, wracking his entire body. He looked up to her then, shock still plain on his face. Metne grit her teeth through the pain in her arm, hefting her sword to be level with his throat.

“Listen to _this,_ wretch,” she roared, pressing and pulling the blade. He joined the Redguard in his final throes, writhing in a growing pool of his own blood on the floor.

The door of the Sanctuary opened again, and the sound of heavy steps came to her then. She held her breath for a single moment in trepidation before she realized that these were her allies swarming in behind her; Ulfric’s men had arrived. She could hear them in the common area, examining Nazir’s body. When they realized they were not at all alone, a familiar voice called to her; “Metne?” it boomed, gruff and truly more of an assertion than a question.

“I’m here, Stone-Fist. I’m here,” she returned, catching her breath. “Search the place. I killed the Redguard and the Listener. Make sure there’s no one else.”

There was no direct response, just Galmar commanding the men to do as she had bidden. They fanned out, some down the hall she had not yet traversed, some up through a hidden passageway, some out the way they had come to search the perimeter. A single soldier came to her, looking over her arm. A mage, it seemed by her lighter armor. She looked up at Metne and gave a nod, which Metne returned: a bright light erupted from the Breton’s fingertips and hovered around Metne’s cut. It stung terribly as the flesh knitted together, righting itself, the only remainder of the gash being the blood that had dried around it. The woman handed her a cloth she had dampened with a poultice tied at her waist and Metne wiped away at the crust. There came a great commotion, and the Breton started, exchanging a glance with her superior. Metne hardly noticed. She only departed the woman, towards the ruckus.

A soldier stood before her as she approached, holding a young girl gruffly by the shoulders. Galmar seemed entirely perplexed. He turned to Metne and gestured toward the scene before them and Metne fixed her gaze on the child. There was something unnatural about her, Metne decided before too long. Her eyes glowed strangely in the low light, and the room they were in held no bed, or even a pile of blankets. There was only a raised stone slab, long enough to perfect fit the laying body of a child. Metne took in these facts quickly, and fixed the _unchild_ with a knowing look. She did not speak; she waited for Babette to do so instead. The thing obliged.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” she spoke, her voice dripping innocence, “They’ve had me for so long! My papa must be worried sick!” she paused, gauging the reaction of her captive audience. “Can you take me to my papa? _Please?”_ she asked, her tone growing in desperation as she went. Whether it was feigned or not, Metne could not tell. She only nodded slowly.

“Why did they have you, child?” Metne asked, watching her expression closely. “The Dark Brotherhood is not known for taking prisoners.”

Babette froze for merely a second. “They were going to sacrifice me! That’s what they told me!” she spat, tears welling in her eyes. She gave a convincing hiccup; the start of a _very_ convincing cry. Metne laughed to herself.

“Babette, you and I both know that the Brotherhood only kills for money.” The vampire froze, her unholy eyes willing Metne to die on the spot. Metne survived, naturally, as she always did. “You take us for _fools,_ unchild?” she asked, her hands clasped behind her back. When she did not answer in her defiance, Metne nodded to the man holding her. He drew the dagger at his side and, perhaps knowing she was outnumbered, Babette lifted her chin to welcome the final blow. The soldier delivered it quickly, but Metne knew better. She stepped forward, placing her boot on the thing’s chest and sawing at its neck until the head rolled from its perch. “A vampire’s death,” she explained to the disgusted crowd. Some nodded, some looked away. She sidestepped them all. “Keep looking. No stone goes unturned.”

It was Galmar who came upon the Night Mother’s corpse, body shriveled and distorted in unnatural ways. He immediately called for Metne.

“Shall we burn her?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the body, as if it might attack him at any moment. For all Metne knew, it might.

“Same as the vampire, I think,” she replied, “Decapitate. Then burn, if you will.”

“A good enough plan as any,” he stated, motioning for her to do the honors. She did, and the men dragged her outside in her tomb, the lid closed.

They all watched her burn, and though none would ever recount it, they heard her screams and shrieks in their heads the entire time – despite the lack of a physical voice to create them.

Despite she and Galmar’s best efforts to the contrary, the ride back to Windhelm was preternaturally somber. She knew the men present would be forever changed by this experience, by their venture on to land as unholy as they had stepped. They had witnessed death for the sake of death and nothing more. They had witnessed a child so impure that it had challenged the very nature of children themselves. She ached to see her countrymen scarred thus; it was a burden she herself could carry, but she knew that all men could not. She only hoped that these would go home to a warm fire and loving families, able to wash the blood from their hands, and the horror from their minds. She only hoped.

Their return to Windhelm was equally as grim as their journey. It was late, and had grown dark; the snow that had found Metne upon her entry into the north had followed her. The cold had sunk into her joints, her bones, her being. She ached mercilessly as she and Galmar mounted the steps to the palace of the kings together, silent. She would begin the journey back to Solitude – where Ulfric had since taken up residence as High King – in two day’s time. For now, Galmar had offered her residence in the first home she had outside of her hometown, and she had taken it happily. After joking for a few moments about jarls on king’s errands, Metne retired for the night, grateful for the spiced wine that sat on her bedside table and for the warm bed she crawled into, her eyelids somehow heavier than her heart.

She checked in at Hjerim the following day, and finding things up to her standards as usual, decided she would depart promptly for Solitude. Ulfric had sent a courier to enquire about her wellbeing; she had assured the man that she was quite well, and would depart as quickly as her schedule would allow. She knew Ulfric better than perhaps he had counted upon; there had never been a time in their relationship where he had called upon her simply to ask how she was _doing_ , not without there being a more urgent matter he was loath to rush her for. Letting Metne know he was thinking of her had seemed to suffice for him, or to get the message across. She always came, she thought with a bitter smile. She was becoming predictable. How boring.

Much to her chagrin, in the wake of the Emperor’s death, all of the scheduled travelling she did was done with company – heavily armed company. It was a bit insulting, at first, though she did grow to understand the necessity. She had hoped that, with the fall of the Brotherhood, her accompaniment might cease. That was not to be, it seemed. So they rode, and she made the best of it; they made jokes, and saw what there was to see. They made camp and drank by firelight – well, she drank, and they wished they could, she was sure – and they, eventually, made it to Solitude some days later. She thanked them as she always did and left them at the palace doors, a woman announcing her arrival from within before she had even entered. She stepped through, smiling slightly, adjusting her clothes. _I’m hardly dressed for a meeting with the king,_ she thought to herself amusedly. Ulfric’s brows rose as she approached from the staircase, a slow smile fanning out across his face. It was familiar, welcoming; she had been right, she decided then. There was something he wanted to tell her. She curtsied, mostly ironically, as she stopped before him. She received a throaty chuckle in return for the gesture.

“Dragonborn,” he started, “Welcome to the seat of the High King.”

She laughed. “As humble as ever, King Ulfric,” she retorted, and he smiled. Something was off. She knew. His introductions were never so drawn out.

“All is well, I trust?” he asked, and she nodded her response in the affirmative. “Very good. You’ll be pleased to hear that your home here in Solitude has been furnished, hopefully to your liking.”

“I am sure it is,” she replied, “Thank you.”

“A thane must have a home in her city,” he went on, and Metne cringed. _Her city,_ she considered. How… quaint. How unlike her.

“I am sure you are quite busy, Ulfric. I will be attending court tomorrow, as a thane does. For now I will see the home you have generously provided me.”

“As you wish. Perhaps I shall call upon you at a later time? We have matters to discuss.”

She felt the pit in her stomach open up; worry. For what, she thought, she was unsure. “Very well,” she agreed dispassionately, nodding her goodbye and turning on her heel. She left the palace quite unnerved. Her accompaniment had since dispersed, and so it was that she walked to her abode in silence, using the directions Ulfric had given her months ago as her only guide to the place.

She found it eventually, and shut herself inside with ill humors.

* * *

 Eventually a courier came after suppertime, a small fellow with large eyes and an endearing demeanor. He had knocked lightly; Metne had hardly heard it as she unpacked the trunk of her clothing and armor that had since shipped in from where it had been kept in Windhelm. She made her way down the stairs and swung the door open, the gentle breeze warmer against her face than she had expected it to be at this hour. The small young man smiled at her, inclined his head politely, and spoke: “Lady Metne, your presence is requested at the Blue Palace.” She smiled her thanks and the young man scampered off, likely equal parts anxious and giddy at having completed his task satisfactorily. She smiled after him; unblemished youth, she considered, was a beautiful thing.

She thought of changing, considered it for a whole second before discarding the idea altogether. Had Ulfric given her inclination that she ought to change, perhaps she would have, but as it stood he had given her nothing. He would receive nothing in return. Feeling particularly spiteful in the moment, she walked to the palace silently, her steps a defiance to the quiet that had fallen over _her_ city. She found the palace doors unlocked, though guarded, and the men opened the doors to her without hesitation. She stepped inside.

She had known the palace was beautiful. Anyone with eyes could have seen that. The high arches carved in rippling white marble, the blue accents that gave the palace its name shining in brilliant concordance. The painstakingly polished surfaces of the place made it seem almost as if it were made of glass, despite the fact that it would hold more like dragonsteel. Here, in the candlelit dusk, the place seemed ethereal. The braziers strewn about the place held only tea lights, and yet the place shone like gold. Ulfric was nowhere to be found at present, and yet she felt as if she would wander these halls forever before wishing to seek him out. Shortly, however, her silent musings were cut to an end.

He was proud of the place, she could tell, but there was something else within him. He had hidden something away, something too bold to speak of straight out, for whatever reason. He seemed guarded, and the smile he offered her then seemed near forced. She hated that she could sense these things with so little interaction, she hated that she knew his game so well. She was immediately uncomfortable, dwarfed by her sense of self, knowing she was only one person. She was one person who had served a king, who had felled the dragons, sure – but one person all the same. She hated that he had information that she did not, and that it was so obvious. She steeled her distemper away, and waited for him to speak.

And speak he did. “Metne,” he began, quieter than she had expected. “There’s news from the Empire.”

She was unsure of what to say for a moment. “The Empire?” she thought for a moment. “What use do we have for them? Or they for us?”

Ulfric smiled, a somber thing, cold and downward. “A fair question,” he responded slowly. “Though it seems the use they have is for _you,_ not _us.”_ He held out a single large envelope, red, with the Imperial seal. She took it gingerly, as if it would burst into flames at the touch of a traitor to the Empire. It did not, alas, and thus she opened it. There were two things within the confines of the red paper. The first was a folded family tree, with herself as the subject. She looked over it, confused by its presence at first – until she traced the lineage back to the top of the tree. At the very start, the top of the long page, was a name with which any Nord with some higher education would be familiar; Morihatha Septim. Her eyes stuck to the name, and she read it again and again. It did not change, despite her wishes that it might, and thus she refolded the document and returned it to the envelope. The second item was a letter, written in an official looking script. This too bore the insignia of the empire; it had not been broken. Metne looked at Ulfric: He had his hands clasped behind his back, watching her sternly, unspeaking, unmoving. This unsettled her deeply. She returned her attention back to the letter, sliding her finger under the seal, breaking it.

The letter was short; shorter than she had expected. It spoke of her heritage, her love for her people, her diligence in battle, and of her being Dragonborn. It told of the Thalmor and the threat they posed, and of her leadership abilities. It spoke of her family, and of her king – and it spoke of a duty to do the right thing for all of mankind. She read it, and then read it again. Each time she grew angrier and then, as if she had been doused with a cold bucket of water, she felt no burning at all. It was replaced by the hollow feeling that comes with resigned acceptance; she knew what they were asking of her even without expressly stating their intent. They had merely asked for a meeting with her, and yet, she knew what they wanted. Silently, she handed the letter to Ulfric. He read it as well, having waited all this time to do so, she considered. She was grateful that he had not opened it without her consent, though she dreaded his reaction as he poured through the information at hand. She glued her eyes to her riding boots as he finished.

“You must know what they intend for you, then,” he spoke quietly. His voice was softer than she had expected it to be.

“Aye,” she returned her gaze to him slowly, “I do.”

“And what answer do you intend for them?”

“I’m not sure, Ulfric. I’ve only just learned-”

“You should go to them.”

She froze, incredulous at his remark. “What?”

He shook his head, looking at her stoically. “They intend to make you empress. You ought to let them.”

She felt that old rage return, filling her with a familiar boiling-over feeling. “And why is that?” she asked haughtily, her arms crossing habitually before her. Ulfric raised a brow at her tone, but went on regardless.

“An ally in the Imperial City, especially one of such high stature, would be very beneficial for Skyrim and her people. If you were to become Empr –”

“No.”

Ulfric looked at her blankly, confused. “No?”

“No.” She did not explain, only turned on her heel and began to walk back to the house she had been given. She intended to pack her things that very night and return to the Thieves Guild in Riften, riding all night if she must. It was the only place that would be her home eternally, she considered bitterly. Things in the High Court were too strange for her, and she longed for the stability of something familiar. She missed her sister. She missed her niece and nephews. Hell, she even missed her brother in law. She missed the simplicity of her spot in the guild. She felt Ulfric’s hand on her shoulder, stopping her; she whipped away from him, turning to fix him with a look more severe as any she had ever given. “How dare you,” she spat indignantly.

“How dare _I?”_ he returned, just as furious. “You would throw this away? And for what? To be thane to a king when you’re destined for so much more?”

“My destiny is my own!” she roared, her fingernails digging into her palms. “Not you, nor anyone else, no matter their title, will dictate it for me!”

“Metne,” he went on, somewhat calmer, “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” she charged on, “Throw away my life’s greatest work? Having fought for you to rip Skyrim from the hands of the Empire, watched my brothers and sisters die, put my family in certain danger, left my friends, _betrayed them_ even, in service to you – how could you even ask this of me? How could you ask me to sit on a throne higher than your own and act as if you did that throne no terrible wrong? How could you call me an ally to Skyrim if I were to represent everything we fought to free her from? Everything _I_ fought to free her from?” she swallowed against the lump in her throat, pushing back the tears, the traitors to her anger. “How could you ask me to help them when they never helped us?”

Ulfric looked at her, silent for a beat before he answered. “It would be _different_ with you as Empress,” sounding as naïve as a child. He said nothing else for a moment, but realizing her silence perhaps, he went on. “It would be _you.”_

As if that were explanation enough for him, Ulfric ceased speaking. Metne only looked at him in equal parts hot contempt and heartbroken misery. She reconsidered her earlier plan then, standing there. The Thieves Guild would not have her back now. She did not want to stay here with Ulfric. She could not go back to her sister and her family. That only left her one choice. She lifted her chin, defiantly, and spoke: “I will go, and you will never ask another thing of me, High King Ulfric Stormcloak,” she stated, and left the palace. Ulfric called after her, following for a moment even in her non-response, but ultimately realized that his efforts would be fruitless. He watched her take the stairs out of the palace from the top step, watched as the doors opened to allow her exit, and watched as they shut. Feeling more miserable than he had in some time, Ulfric walked sullenly back to his chambers and called for a bottle of the most disgusting ale the city had available – and proceeded to finish the entire thing before falling into a fitful slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a while to bat out. I hope you enjoy! Next chapter should be out with more haste than this last, as I've already written it - it just needs going over. As always, comments are appreciated.


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